


Punk head and gentleman tails

by GwenChan



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Clothes references, Punk, Punk England (Hetalia), Transformation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 07:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7351153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GwenChan/pseuds/GwenChan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Punk England's transformation in the proper gentleman politicians are used to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Punk head and gentleman tails

**Punk head and gentleman tails**

 

_London, 1978_

It’s dawning when England arrives at his London messy apartment, half-light cigarette pending from the left corner of his dry mouth, nicotine-stained fingers holding the greasy keys.

There are bluish bags under his eyes, the genre that speaks about long sleepless night of music and alcohol in unknown pubs where the pulsing heart of London rebellious youth would gather to contest the system. The tongue insistently tastes the metal of the steel button piercing his lower lip, the anonymous black T-shirt is sticky with sweat – leather may be fashionable, but it’s not the most comfortable thing in crowded, small and too hot places.

Black, knee-long, laced combat boots kicks the door open, to vent the latest remains of anarchist anger in his body.

 

There is a meeting at the House of Common previewed for nine in the morning, then a private vis-à-vis with the Minister of Finance in the early afternoon and Mrs Thatcher herself has a _certain important matter_ she would like to discuss with him as soon as possible. Plus there are documents to read, letters to be answered and phone calls to be done. Being a nation has never been an easy job.

When England switches on the lights, his brain protests for the sudden change with a piercing headache. Massaging the root of his nose, the man heads to the kitchen, lit by the pinkish rays of the dawning sun, reclaiming a cup of strong black, sugarless tea to start functioning again. He drinks it in a hurry, boiling hot, enough to scorch his tongue. A series of colourful swears and curses pours from his mouth. At least his mind is beginning to properly work again.

 

It’s like watching a Cinderella transformation. England undresses himself. He takes off the leather jacket, jingling from all the little metal chains attached to it, and the skinny jeans ripped on thighs and knees; he kicks off the combat boots, after having untied the laces with the easiness and quickness of years of practice.

When he’s naked, England drags himself to the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror. With slowly care he removes all the steel piercings that decorates his face: the little ring in his left eyebrow, the small buttons in his lower lip, nose, chin and the various earrings.

After that, the nation pours a generous dose of makeup remover on a cotton disk, proceeding in removing the black lipstick, the black eyeliner and the greenish shadow on the upper eyelids, matching the light green ends of his gel spiking hair. Still most of the makeup is black. Black, ton of black; blackish rivulets stain the white ceramics of the hand basin. Even his nails polish is black. He takes care in eliminating that too.

Finally England steps in the shower. Freezing water makes him shivers, wakes him up, washes away not only the dirt of London streets – smoke and drugs – but also his very night side, the punk side. The water washes _Arthur Kirkland_ away and let only _England_ remain. The man who steps out the shower and wrap in the dry bathrobe is clean from head – now with messy wet blond hair, with no traces of green – to toe. Before leaving the bathroom, he vigorously brushes teeth and gargles.

 

The final part of the transformation is dressing, in proper gentleman clothes this time. Plain white boxers are followed by plain cotton anthracite socks, light-blue custom-tailored spread shirt and British style light grey suit, with a waistcoat of the same colour. Polished Oxford shoes complete the picture.

 

At seven o’clock in the morning the transformation is finished. A punk man has entered the apartment at dawn; a gentleman well dressed in expensive clothes is now exiting the door.

Still both are England. Two sides of the same coin.

**Author's Note:**

> When inspiration strikes, it strikes. I had this image of England being punk at night and becoming again a gentleman in the morning, after a long a careful transformation.  
> I've done some quick research in clothes references, but probably there are nothing precise. Anyway, enjoy.


End file.
